


Act I

by flitterflutterfly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Final Fantasy VII - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterflutterfly/pseuds/flitterflutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The wandering soul knows no rest.</i> (<i>Loveless</i>, Act I)</p><p>d'Artagnan never dreamed of being a SOLDIER. Then his father is murdered by one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Almaheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almaheart/gifts).



> That Final Fantasy VII fusion that fits so well. Probably you need to know Final Fantasy to understand this, but if not... I'm certainly not going to stop you from reading it. 
> 
> And yes, this story means that I have gotten myself into ANOTHER fandom. Watch out Musketeers, I will be slashing you together eventually.

Charles d’Artagnan, unlike every other boy in his village, never dreamed of being a SOLDIER. He was content with helping his father, Alexandre d’Artagnan, on their modest farm—at least until the Mako reactor only a few miles outside of their town made its presence known.

“The crops have done worse every year since I was a lad,” his father told him, face pale. “But never before have they refused to grow completely.”

“What can we do?” d’Artagnan asked.

His father told turned him and his eyes held a grim sort of determination. “I must go to Midgar. I must petition President Shinra to shut down the reactor.”

“Father…”

“It must be me. Who else in town has the savings to travel to Midgar?”

“It will cost us everything.”

His father placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, his eyes on the desolate fields. “We’ve already lost everything.”

d’Artagnan took a deep breath. “Then I’m going with you.”

His father smiled. “Saddle up the chocobos, son.”

 

 

They traveled hard, sleeping pitifully as wolves howled outside their small tent. Their chocobos were work beasts, hardy and strong, but even they looked harried by the time Midgar was on the horizon.

They stopped at an inn in the Lower City, hoping to get an audience with the president the next day. d’Artagnan took the chocobos to the stable as his father went to get them a room with their meager coin.

Later, when he looked back on that night, he could admit that the only reason he wasn’t slaughtered like the patrons of the inn, the innkeeper, and his father, was because of luck. Had he not ducked under his father’s chocobo, checking for broken fathers along the girth line, he would have lost his head to the SOLDIER’s long sword.

As it was, his father’s chocobo reared in fright with the sudden loss of some feathers, giving d’Artagnan the distraction he needed to draw his own sword. He reacted on instinct, lunging at the man like he’d lunge at the beasts who circled his father’s farm.

It was hardly a fair fight. The SOLDIER, eyes glowing from the Mako treatment, disarmed him in barely a moment. d’Artagnan, seeing the blood still dripping from that deceptively slender sword, swallowed roughly.

The SOLDIER flicked his gaze to the two chocobo, both clawing at the corner of the stable, back to d’Artagnan. “Was that your father in there, boy?” He brought his sword up and licked at the blood dripping down to the base. Though he’d never looked like that, wild and untamed, in the pictures—d’Artagnan still recognized him.

d’Artagnan fell to his knees. “Why have you done this?”

The SOLDIER laughed. “I am General Athos, SOLDIER First Class. I need no reason to do anything.”

Athos turned away, leaving d’Artagnan on his knees in the dirt. d’Artagnan didn’t think, didn’t breath. In one moment, he knelt and in the next he had his dagger hurling toward the SOLDIER’s back.

Athos turned at the last minute and the dagger sliced through the edge of his sleeve. The SOLDIER brought his arm up, blue eyes watching as a soft trickle of blood bubbled up from the small wound, the red color stark when surrounded by the black of the SOLDIER First Class uniform.

d’Artagnan brought his arms up, ready to fight, ready for his death, thinking only of revenge and retribution and meeting his family again in the Lifestream.

Athos took one look at him and laughed. “Remember me when you cry,” he hissed, one second two yards in front and the next behind d’Artagnan.

d’Artagnan registered only a small flash of the pain he’d feel when he eventually woke, and then the world went dark.

 

 

Her name was Constance and she lived in a small house under the Plate with her husband—who spent long hours sewing sacks and ratty bags and the rest of his time mourning the loss of favor that had him fired from his job as the President’s personal tailor. She took one look at him, still stumbling around from the blow to his head, and took him in for the night.

It was Constance that showed him to the train that would take him above the Plate and gave him the directions to the company building. “Careful, d’Artagnan,” she said. “The life of a SOLDIER is not for everyone. You will not get glory, not as a cadet and not as a new Third Class should you pass.”

“I don’t want to join them,” d’Artagnan snarled.

He boarded the train before Constance, face suddenly pale, could say anything to his venomous words.

 

 

Athos was remarkably easy to find. There was an outdoor training field near the company tower. d’Artagnan recognized the two he sparred with, just as he’d recognized Athos even without the introduction. The General and the two Commanders were _the_ SOLDIERs First Class. Too often d’Artagnan had seen their faces plastered over the papers, the faces of Shinra and the SOLDIER program.

“Athos!” d’Artagnan yelled at edge of the field. He left off the title because no murderer deserved to be given that respect. “Today, one of us dies!”

He rushed forward, knowing full well he’d already lost to this man, and knowing still there was nothing else he could do. He was no Turk to fight from the shadows. All he had was the tattered remains of his pride and the memory of blood dripping off Athos’s long sword… all he had was the dirt under his fingernails, leftover from burying his father’s grave in an abandoned church under the Plate.

Aramis and Porthos stepped back, their faces amused and their stances relaxed. They chuckled together as Athos fended off d’Artagnan’s first strike with nothing more than a flick of his wrist.

d’Artagnan didn’t even see the SOLDIER he fought. All he saw was the memory of their last fight, and the shocked expression on his father’s dead face. He fought wildly, like an untamed chocobo or a mountain wolf. He fought like he had nothing to lose, because he didn’t, because it was his father their town had looked up to, not him—because everything was dead, crops and family and hope.

“Why are you attacking me, boy?” Athos asked.

It was the boy that did it. Said in the same tone, like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t care.

“You killed my father,” d’Artagnan said, all his rage contained now in silent fury. “You let me live two nights ago. Now you will either kill me, or I will kill you.”

He struck again and again, shots deflected off that long, slender sword with only the tiniest of sounds.

“Enough!” Athos yelled finally, pinning d’Artagnan down. “I did not kill your father!”

“I saw you!” d’Artagnan replied. “I fought you! I struck you!”

“Where?” Athos asked. “Tell me where and we will end this charade.”

d’Artagnan brushed Athos’s arm, touched the uncut SOLDIER’s sleeve. “There.”

Athos shrugged off his vest and shirt without pause. d’Artagnan’s mouth went dry, half because of sudden expanse of skin being shown and half because of how it made him feel, that Athos was so unconcerned about his arms being tangled and his sight blocked for that moment. It would have been so easy, he thought, to strike then, but even without feeling the heavy gazes of Porthos and Aramis watching them, d’Artagnan was too honorable to fight so dirty. His father had instilled that in him and he _couldn’t_ disrespect that now.

Athos’s arm was free of any cut or bruise. Not even the hint of a mark remained where d’Artagnan had sliced him.

“You’re a SOLDIER,” d’Artagnan whispered, unable to believe he’d hallucinated the whole thing. “You’ve healed.”

“We may heal fast,” Aramis said, stepping up. “But not that fast. Two nights ago, you said?”

d’Artagnan nodded, his throat tight and any words caught behind it.

Athos redressed, even as Porthos helped d’Artagnan to his feet. “Athos was with us two nights ago. He did not kill your father.”

“But I saw…” d’Artagnan whispered. “It was him.”

Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis. “What’s your name?” Aramis asked kindly.

“d’Artagnan. Charles d’Artagnan, son of the late Alexandre.”

“d’Artagnan,” Athos said, but before he could get in another word, the courtyard was suddenly flooded with suit-wearing Turks and several SOLDIERs Second Class.

“Director Tréville,” Aramis said, his voice highlighting the surprise on all of their faces. “What’s going on?”

“Athos,” Tréville said, ignoring the two commanders and d’Artagnan. “You are under arrest for murderer.”

“What?” Porthos asked.

Director Tréville shook his head. “There’s video evidence, Athos. Please come quietly.”

“I have murdered none whom I haven’t been ordered to by Shinra and yourself,” Athos hissed, but he allowed himself to be prodded away.

“It wasn’t Athos,” Aramis said. “Director–”

“He’ll be executed at dawn,” Tréville said. “If it wasn’t Athos, then find out who tricked the cameras. The evidence is too concrete, Commander, down to the DNA prints.”

“Fuck,” Porthos said.

 

 

Despite everything, d’Artagnan work with the two commanders to clear Athos’s name—because, as Porthos had said, if they found the framer, then they found the one who’d killed d’Artagnan’s father.

Their search led them to Dujon, one of Professor Richelieu’s scientists. Dujon, faced with two SOLDIERs, their Mako-eyes glowing bright, led them to Gaudet and a secret lab just outside of Midgar.

That was all they needed. The Turks were called, the lab was stormed, and in the process, both Dujon and Gaudet were killed.

Later, d’Artagnan watched Porthos and Aramis looking at Professor Richelieu and wondered why their eyes glowed bright with barely contained rage, but most of his attention was focused on the explanation.

“An illegally-made clone,” Richelieu said to the three SOLDIERs First Class, Director Tréville, the Turks, and President Louis Shinra. d’Artagnan stood in the back and tried not to fidget. “I had no idea, of course. I apologize, Mr. President. I should have vetted my men more carefully.”

“I don’t blame you,” Louis said, looking even younger in person than he had in the papers. “Tréville, I want this clone found and put down.”

“My SOLDIERs are already searching, Mr. President,” Tréville said.

d’Artagnan followed the SOLDIERs as they left with their director.

Tréville turned to him in the elevator. “I apologize for the death of your father, d’Artagnan,” he said formally. “You’ll be notified when the clone is caught and executed. And of course, the company will pay for reparations.”

“I don’t care about money,” d’Artagnan said. “Let me help search for it.”

“You’re no match for a SOLDIER, even the clone of one,” Aramis said.

“Especially not one of Athos,” Porthos muttered, glancing at the brooding general.

“Then give me Mako treatments,” d’Artagnan bargained.

Tréville gave him a considering look, even as the three SOLDIERs First Class all shook their heads. “We’ll see. I’ll stick you in with the next batch of cadets. I’ll oversee your scores myself, d’Artagnan. If you pass and the clone is still not caught, you may find yourself on a mission.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” d’Artagnan said, and ignored the pang of hurt that flashed through him at the looks the three SOLDIERs were giving each other over Tréville’s head.

 

 

He finished best in his class. Tréville pushed his Mako treatments up, after d’Artagnan’s assurances that he’d be able to withstand the pain of a double dose.

He was out for a week. When he came back, he didn’t recognize his own body. He stumbled out of the infirmary. There was a commotion going on that he could hear, even past walls of steel and long empty hallways. He ran, bouncing off walls as he failed to turn quick enough. He could barely control his limbs, but he made it to the mess hall in time to see Porthos and Aramis holding off Athos while another Athos lay bleeding on the floor.

He roared, sprinting across the tabletops. He underestimated his new speed, again, and slammed into the clone without slowing.

They both crashed into the far wall. The steel cracked, splintering out and slicing through d’Artagnan’s leg.

He stumbled back, pulling himself off the metal with a sickening lurch. He stared, his vision coming in colors he’d never seen before, at the body of the clone. Half of the wall panel stuck out of the bottom of its torso.

The clone’s eyes were bright even as it coughed up blood. It reached a shaking hand up to touch the sharp edge of the metal wall protruding proudly from its body. d'Artagnan watched, entranced, sickened, saddened, elated.

“d’Artagnan,” Athos groaned, limping to his side, and some of the clone's spell broke.

“Well then,” Aramis said, coming to d’Artagnan’s other side. Porthos came to stand beside him.

Together, the four of them watched the clone die. They didn’t move until Tréville stood in front of them and forced them off to the infirmary to get checked over.

“Congratulations, boys,” Tréville said.

“It wasn’t us,” Athos stated. “It was d’Artagnan.”

“Was it?”

d’Artagnan wasn’t sure that he liked the look in the director’s eyes, but he nodded and smiled and then welcomed the darkness that swiftly came over him.

 

 

“Idiot–”

He heard words come in too soft and too loud all at once.

“–wasn't cleared to leave the infirmary yet.”

“Should have tied–”

“He’ll be promoted, SOLDIER Seco–”

“–too fast?”

“–always wanted a puppy.”

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the three SOLDIERs First Class. And though he was lost in a city he barely knew, without a penny left to his name and no family to speak of… and though he’d forced his own body to become a stranger to him—he looked at those three faces and felt perfectly content.

“Well,” Aramis said. “Guess you’re ours now.”

“Okay,” d’Artagnan said and closed his eyes again.

“Yeah,” he heard Porthos say. “A cute little puppy.”

“Just make sure he’s house-trained,” Athos replied.

He fell asleep easily.

**Author's Note:**

> If I ever wrote a sequel, it’d go something like this:
> 
> “Is that why your clone spared my life? Because you’re attracted to me?” d’Artagnan asked.  
> Athos swallowed roughly, but Aramis laughed and said, “ _Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess_.”  
>  “ _Loveless_ , Act I,” Porthos stated.  
> “What?” d’Artagnan asked.  
> “ _Ripples form on the water’s surface_ ,” Aramis replied.  
> “He’s saying probably,” Athos muttered. Porthos nestled his shoulder against Athos’s, showcasing comfortable intimacy with a sly smile on his face.  
> “Wait, are you guys–” d’Artagnan licked his lips. “Are you all together?”  
> “ _There is no hate, only joy_ ,” Aramis said.  
> “That’s a yes too,” Porthos told him. “ _Loveless_ , Act II.”
> 
> And then there’d be OT4 and set up for war with Wutai despite the President’s wife, Anne, being from there and other fusion stuff. But don’t hold your breath for that sequel cause it ain’t happening anytime soon.


End file.
